


tell me your sorrows, darling

by sinfulchihuahua0602



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Bigotry & Prejudice, Gen, Gentle Dom Jaskier | Dandelion, M/M, No Smut, Sub Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-12
Updated: 2020-08-12
Packaged: 2021-03-06 02:42:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,326
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25856077
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sinfulchihuahua0602/pseuds/sinfulchihuahua0602
Summary: Geralt usually drinks himself past a Witcher's alcohol tolerance when the world gets to be too much. Jaskier finds out, and decides that that has to change.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 13
Kudos: 342





	tell me your sorrows, darling

**Author's Note:**

> back on my nonsexual d/s bullshit, so here have this softness

Geralt had a habit of internalizing things.

Jaskier knew this, obviously. He figured it out approximately four days after being attacked by the elves, and had a suspicion even before then, but he didn’t know the extent of it until some room at an inn that was too expensive, and insults and names thrown at Geralt, when the Witcher slipped out of the room after the hunt and after dinner. Jaskier found him hours later, leaning against a tree, smelling strongly of ale, and he made sure not to cut himself on the broken glass of the bottle next to Geralt’s feet as he led him back to the inn.

It didn’t happen often; Geralt had an astonishing amount of self control, and Jaskier could count on one hand the number of times he found him that drunk in a single year. He tried to help, anyway; talked to Geralt as if he was an animal that would spook, which he sort of was. Jaskier got him to admit it; he had good days, and he had regular days, and the bad days were when he went to the woods. All Jaskier asked was for Geralt to tell him when it was a bad day, so he could help before he bought the bottle.

In the next four years, the number of times diminished. Not because Geralt had more good days, but because Jaskier was there on his bad days, and he was not to be deterred in preventing Geralt from drinking past his own alcohol tolerance. 

Another three years passed, and now they were here. Together, like always, and of course Jaskier had never stopped helping Geralt. He just found a new way to do it.

Jaskier looked up from his lute as the door swung open, admitting Geralt, who stumbled just slightly as he walked in. Jaskier frowned and set his lute aside on the bed, sliding off of it and padding over in bare feet to the Witcher. He swayed just slightly - whether it was drinking or exhaustion or both, Jaskier couldn’t tell.

“Geralt?” he asked quietly. He got a grunt in response as Geralt sat heavily down on a chair, and when pale fingers drifted to his armor buckles, ready to undo them, they were slapped away with a light sting.

“Don’t touch.”

Jaskier’s frown smoothed out into a sterner expression, voice going just that slightest bit harder, though it still held an edge of softness to it. “Geralt.”

He didn’t elaborate - he didn’t need to. Jaskier stood there silently, blue eyes firmly fixed on the Witcher, who, after several long moments in which he simply stared down at his hands, slumped just the slightest bit. Jaskier took a step back, his own shoulders relaxing and a smile easily curving his lips.

“What is it today?” he asked lightly, turning to take one of the pillows from the bed and laying it on the floor in front of the other cheap wooden armchair. 

There was a long moment of silence, and Jaskier was turned half around to Geralt before he finally heard the low, reluctant rumble. “Bad.”

Jaskier nodded, but his expression and movements didn’t change otherwise. Geralt could smell the sadness tinging his scent still, but the bard simply took a seat in the chair - which had been adorned with more pillows for him - and strummed a note on his lute. His legs were on either side of the pillow on the floor at his feet - a silent, open offer. “What happened?” he asked while focusing on his lute. To anyone else, it may have seemed absent, but they both knew Jaskier was listening, focused far more on what Geralt was saying than on his lute.

Geralt let out a long breath, broken by the quiet chord of Jaskier’s lute, before he spoke. “Alderman refused to pay,” he said.

Jaskier nodded to himself, testing another note. It was always the big things, first. The things justified for Geralt to be angry at, the things he wouldn’t be seen as weak or overreacting to get mad at. And then, gradually, the small things; someone looked at him wrong, someone moved the wrong way - all things that were not, usually, reasonable for someone to get mad at. Yet, for someone like Geralt, the small things were the ones that hurt the most; it reminded him every time how ingrained it was in humanity to shy away from Witchers, how hated they were, and, well. They were the straws that broke the camel’s back.

“What went wrong on the hunt?” Jaskier asked softly, when Geralt didn’t continue.

Another long silence. Geralt stood up and stepped slowly over to where Jaskier was sitting. He’d divested himself of his armor, and was in only his thin shirt and pants. 

Jaskier didn’t play another note. Geralt paused in front of the pillow, and Jaskier felt the slightest tendril of anxiety rise up in him. This balance they had was fragile, requiring an immense amount of trust on both ends, and Jaskier knew just how much Geralt’s trust had been broken, and how thin it could be if it wasn’t built up properly. 

“A nest of nekkers. He said there were only three. I killed seven.”

Geralt slipped down to his knees on the pillow and Jaskier hid his breath of relief. Even after months of this, he was never sure if he’d done something that had unwittingly broken Geralt’s trust; he was as scared of being left as Geralt was. 

Jaskier knew there was still tension in his shoulders, but that would bleed out in time. He had to be patient; Geralt couldn’t be forced into anything if he didn’t want it. 

“The alderman might get a visit from me tomorrow,” Jaskier said, pulling his notebook to his lap and flipping it open, picking up the pencil he kept in it. He wanted to touch Geralt desperately, wanted to show him how he appreciated the surrender the Witcher gave to him when he didn’t willingly give it to anyone else, but it wasn’t time yet. They’d been doing this long enough that Jaskier knew what made Geralt comfortable and what made him uncomfortable. 

The Witcher hummed, then hesitated. Even after how long they’d been doing it, Geralt found it difficult to keep talking, and about his thoughts no less. He couldn’t respond to what Jaskier said with anything but his own thoughts on the person, not a question back at the bard. It was hard, but at least Jaskier didn’t have to find him in the woods and help him stumble back to the inn. 

“He’s pompous,” Geralt told him quietly. Jaskier smiled and set his notebook aside, taking up position on his lute and strumming a few soft chords. “Probably wouldn’t have paid me enough if there _had_ been three nekkers.”

Jaskier tsked. “He’ll learn,” he said - calmly, lightly, but not harmless. There was a slight threat to those words, unnoticeable to anyone but Geralt, who had known him long enough to be able to track the little tics and signals that betrayed Jaskier’s true emotion, even if he didn’t already have his scent to rely on. 

Geralt didn’t continue again, and Jaskier took it as his cue. Without the slightest signal as to his notice of how Geralt had gone briefly nonverbal, he began playing the soft beginning to a song, humming a tune along with it that sounded like it would be lyrics. Parts of the hum bled into half-formed words, a thoughtful tone pervading it all. 

Some of the tension bled from Geralt’s shoulders now, listening to Jaskier, and he closed his eyes, leaning his head against Jaskier’s thigh. The bard faded off into silence, and Geralt felt the beginnings of the pleasant haze, like a fog off in the distance, coming towards him. 

It was quiet for a few moments, Jaskier silent and Geralt thinking, before the bard’s thigh nudged him slightly and he remembered he wasn’t supposed to internalize his negative thoughts. 

Jaskier waited, and his lips twitched up into a smile when Geralt told him of the next thing; small, not as important as not being paid. He was getting closer, letting go of the feelings he usually kept inside himself. 

“There was a woman,” Geralt started, and stopped. His eyes were open now, staring at the pattern on Jaskier’s doublet. 

Jaskier set his lute aside and put one hand in Geralt’s hair, running his fingers through in a steady, soothing rhythm. He felt Geralt go still, focusing on the rhythm, and momentarily losing his train of thought as he continued without thinking. 

“She was the apothecary,” he said, and tensed when he realized he’d kept going, but Jaskier tugged lightly on his hair as he passed his hand through and Geralt sighed quietly. “Refused to sell me ingredients.”

Jaskier was quiet; he always was during this time, because it was his time to listen. Geralt tilted his head just slightly up into Jaskier’s hand in his hair, and felt the pleasant haze fuzzing the edges of his consciousness, loosening his tongue enough to continue without any guilt. 

“The innkeeper,” he started, and his tone turned slightly sorrowful and tired. He closed his eyes and let his head rest heavily on Jaskier’s thigh. “He leaned away from me. Didn’t want to touch me.”

Jaskier’s scent tinged with anger and sadness, but his hand stayed steady in Geralt’s hair and his voice was soothing and soft. “His loss,” he said. “They don’t deserve you.”

Geralt hummed, the haze settling lightly over his mind and only getting heavier the more Jaskier ran his hand through his hair and the more he let go by talking about it. And, that was the whole point, wasn’t it. Geralt knew Jaskier wouldn’t begrudge him his anger towards humans for being so biased, wouldn’t tell him he should be grateful he was allowed to be in their presence at all, wouldn’t be hurt for telling him this. That was how he relaxed, by knowing he was safe and not alone anymore, knowing someone did care for him, even if it took him months to start to believe it. 

It was certainly better than waking up with a pounding hangover. 

“Is that it?” Jaskier asked softly. Not judgmentally, just neutral. Geralt was tempted to say yes, because if he did then he knew he’d finally be able to relax fully, slip into that pleasant haze, and wouldn’t need to keep talking.

But, he wouldn’t. Geralt knew he wouldn’t be able to truly relax until he told Jaskier everything. It was something he’d gotten used to, not being alone, and it was more freeing than he’d thought.

With the steady rhythm of Jaskier’s hand in his hair grounding him, Geralt spent the next fifteen minutes listing off what he’d seen today, all the negative ways society had impacted him. The man who inappropriately touched a woman next to him, who Geralt had saved her from with a few harsh words, and the way the woman didn’t even say thank you, but instead ran from him. The blacksmith, who called him _Butcher_ despite Jaskier’s songs (and that made Jaskier’s fingers tighten in his hair briefly, and the edge of anger grow slightly sharper). The baker, who refused his coin, and when Jaskier heard that Geralt only wanted to get the bard his favorite pastry since he happened to have enough coin for it for once, Jaskier told him it was okay. 

With every new thing he told Jaskier, Geralt felt the haze slip over his mind, settling heavy until he was focused entirely on Jaskier’s hand in his hair and his voice as he softly hummed and sang tunes. It was a more complete relaxation than he’d ever gotten before, and the way Jaskier said _thank you_ and _you did so well_ made him believe easier that he wasn’t burdening him, that he was safe doing this. And, when Jaskier _agreed_ with him, when he said that he’d think the same thing. 

It was an experience Geralt never wanted to give up. He wondered how he’d ever gotten any sort of peace from burying himself in a bottle in the woods, how he’d managed without this for so long. 

It was an undetermined amount of time, so lost in the pleasant haze Geralt was in, with the scent and feel of Jaskier surrounding him, that he felt his hand tug just slightly in his hair. It registered distantly, but grew more insistent with each pass. The haze lifted, slowly but surely, until Geralt’s eyes fluttered open and he tipped his head up to look at Jaskier, cheek still pressed against his thigh. 

Jaskier smiled. “Good,” he said softly, and tilted his head towards the bed. “Come on.”

Geralt hummed, it being farther past him than usual to think of using words, and followed Jaskier’s hand as it lifted from his hair and he stood up. 

The haze slipped further away with every step he took to the bed, with every new movement he made, and by the time he was laying on his back in the bed and Jaskier was climbing next to him, he wrapped his arms around the bard and pulled him down on top of him, eliciting a small gasp and a laugh. Geralt wasted no time in burying his face in the crook of Jaskier’s neck, inhaling deeply and sighing softly when all he could smell was Jaskier. His hands slid underneath his shirt to feel the warm skin there, fingers splayed across Jaskier’s back, one calloused thumb rubbing small circles in his skin. 

Jaskier laughed softly and settled in, shifting closer to Geralt. His fingers tangled in Geralt’s hair and slowly ran through, nails lightly scratching his scalp. “Sleep, love. I’ll be here in the morning.”

Geralt hummed and tightened his arms, and the darkness that took him was warm and smelled like Jaskier. 


End file.
